


I Know It's Over (But It Never Really Began)

by Aduantas



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c., The Smiths
Genre: Locked In, Other, Piggate, Telepathy, What Was I Thinking?, but u have pound notes to dry ur eyes, crackfic, soz for not including u craig gannon, the fans they love milk, this is somehow the best and the worst thing I've ever written, well not so much at first but it gets crackier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8086051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aduantas/pseuds/Aduantas
Summary: "This tradition dates back to Lord Walpole's departure, Mr. Morrissey, before the term Prime Minister was even in use. It shall be continued with or without your co-operation." Help! Morrissey's been kidnapped by a shadowy government agency for nefarious purposes--but what will happen when he finds out why? (In other news, this is mostly crack, written primarily to stop it taking up valuable brain space, and inspired primarily by Smiths memes. You Have Been Warned.)Morrissey, if by any chance you or any of your people are reading this, I come to write stupid fanfic, not to slander, libel or claim my writing to be factual in any way. Milk, if you or any of your relatives are reading this, don't worry, I like you, I just don't think Morrissey does. Johnny and Andy, I'm trusting you to be cool.





	1. I was detained, I was restrained.

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh....don't ask me when exactly this is set, except that it's post-Brexit, post Hameron resignation. Don't worry, more plot will be revealed later, along with telepathic communication, the sympathetic low-level villain trope, dismal vegetarian options, Thatcher-related plot elements, and Why Johnny and Morrissey Stopped Talking A Few Years Ago (cogito-ergo-dumb, we aren't mutual or anything, but one of your old posts inspired the reason. sorry). Formatting is likely to be terrible since I'm typing this from handwritten notes. All chapters will have lazy Smiths-lyric names--If I ever actually finish this, lol. Unbetaed and mostly unedited, no one holds any responsibility for this but me. On with the show!

 

 

"No, Billy, I don't want to join the revolution," mumbled Morrissey, former lead singer of alternative rock group The Smiths, as he began to awake from his drugged slumber. "I'm too tired for your antics...."

He blinked, blearily, and tried in vain to recall where he was.

"You are Steven Patrick Morrissey, born on the 25th of May, 1959, are you not?"

"Not so loud, please," he muttered, rolling on one side, away from the direction the voice was coming from.

"You _are_ Stephen Patrick Morrissey, born on the 25th of May, 1959, are you not?"

"Yes. No, wait, I am. Amn't. Um, my name is Morrissey, yes."

"Formerly lead vocalist for the alternative rock group The Smiths?"

"I have had a career since, y'know. I've won _awards_."

He blinked, his exhaustion beginning to fade, but not, unfortunately, his headache. Why did he have a headache? He didn't remember drinking last night; in fact, he didn't remember much of anything from last night, or even remember if it wasn't still last night. Let's see, rehearsal, sound-check, two hours on stage, and then some journalist had wanted to talk to him...

He opened his eyes; he was lying on the floor of a bare white room--a bare white cell, no less, with no natural light to be seen and no visible furnishings. A little to his side, looming over his prostrate body, stood the journalist.

"Thank you for confirming your identity, Mr. Morrissey."

"What on earth is happening? Is this a plot by the NME? The Mail? Some two-bit music site?" 

She smiled, slightly. It seemed an expression more at home on a great white than on a human, but then perhaps that was the intent. 

"It's quite simple, Mr. Morrissey--"

"Just Morrissey, thank you--"

"Of course. Mr. Morrissey, you are aware of David Cameron's resignation as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom?"

It took a few seconds before he realized he was meant to give a response.

"Ah, yes. Over the Brexit?"

"Quite correct, Mr. Morrissey, quite correct. Now, upon his or her resignation, the Prime Minister is offered the chance to make a request upon Her Majesty's government-- any request that can be carried out by said government to the extent of the full powers of said government. Mr. Cameron, in part, due to what I believe to be his, ah, somewhat impaired state following the results of the referendum, requested that a band he rather enjoyed in his youth be reunited. That band is, as I am sure you are aware, The Smiths." She paused.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, please do not be concerned, Mr. Morrissey, we won't require that you tour together, or that a new album is recorded, although I am sure that that would certainly be beneficial to your finances—"

"There is nothing wrong with my finances!"

"I am merely making an observation, Mr. Morrissey. In any case, we shall simply ask that you and your former bandmates reconcile your differences for long enough to produce evidence of a familial, if not industrial, reunification. After that goal has been achieved, and the results presented to Mr. Cameron, then you shall be free to return to your current occupation."

"But--but that's ridiculous!" he blustered, his confusion readily giving way to horror. "Anyway, Johnny and I have made it quite clear several times that we'd never reform the band--and certainly not at the behest of a man like David Cameron." 

Even her shark-like grin had disappeared into a mask of steely professionalism.

"This institution dates to the time of the Right Honourable Earl Robert Walpole, prior even to when the term Prime Minister was first used for the position. It shall continue whether you decide to offer your cooperation or not, Morrissey."

"Is that a threat?"

"I am simply stating the facts of the matter, as they pertain to you and your situation." She raised an arm, delicately turning her wrist, to inspect the dial of the gleaming silver watch affixed to her left wrist. "And now that you are aware of the circumstances and of your necessary aims, I must take my leave. This is not a project of insignificant security risk or logistical complication; there is much to be taken care of."

"Wait!" he tried to look as beseeching as he could, which he suspected wasn't very. "Can't you tell me what's going to happen next? Am I being taken anywhere? When will I be able to leave?"

She looked at him levelly, then, taking a cursory look across the room, crossed to the thickly-clad door. There, she swiped a card through a slot, resulting in a faint beep. Opening the door, just about to exit, she turned to gaze at where Morrissey still lay on the padded floor, looking helplessly back up at her. She smiled again. "Enjoy meeting your cellmates, Steven."  She left. For a few seconds, he could hear the clack of her high heels against a hard floor; the door swung closed with a thud, leaving him with no audible sound but the wheezing of the air conditioning.

His mind raced. Surely, she couldn't have meant--

There was a beep from the door. He shot to his feet, trying to find dignified posture in a room with a squashy floor and no chair in which to sit, but, to his growing despair, he could already hear a familiar voice through the now-unsealed entrance. He pondered wildly whether to try and make a run for it, but decided instead to concentrate on making his hair look less as though he had been asleep on a floor for some time.

The door swung open. Thankfully, for the sake of his pride, Johnny was engaged in attempting to converse with a guard in bulky riot gear, standing next to him.

"So, we weren't sure about whether we had the room, and my youngest wasn't too keen--oh."

Evidently, he had finally noticed who he was to be sharing a cell with. Morrissey couldn't read Johnny's expression, but he felt like "oh" was about right.

"See you later, yeah?" he said to the guard, who grunted, prodded him into the cell and disappeared out into whatever building they were being held in.

Johnny looked incredibly uncomfortable, but before either of them could even attempt to say anything, the situation, somehow, escalated.

While Morrissey knew he was not, at heart, a particularly optimistic man, he felt he could generally rely on himself to know when he had hit the very deepest fathom of despair, disgust, horror, etc. While he did not exactly follow a scientific method of measurement, he thought himself accustomed enough to their clutches to know when things were at their most bleak.

He felt he could rely on that, that is, until, certain as he was of the completeness of the nightmare into which he had been suddenly plunged, he heard another voice which left him in no doubt that things had, in fact, gotten worse.

"Oh, funny seeing you here, Johnny. What've you been up to lately?"

In the doorway stood Mike Joyce, flanked by armed men; behind them was Andy Rourke, looking sheepish in a sheepskin jacket strangely reminiscent of the one he had when he was still a Smith.

Johnny and Morrissey's eyes met. For one precious moment, they were in complete concurrence.  

"Oh, sh--"

A klaxon blared. The guards manhandled Andy and Mike into the cell, then slammed the door.

There was an audible clack as it locked.

 

 


	2. Truly, truly, truly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, yeah, some stuff happened. Fic as of now discontinued, read on for an explanation and skip the wall of text for some brief plot and characterization details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential triggers: brief mentions of body horror/cannibalism, drug use and dental surgery.

_well._

a truly astonishing number of things have happened since I first conceived of this fic: the political situation became cartoonishly dire, my computer ground its way to an ignoble death beginning from early November of last year and, of course, morrissey once again dissappointed us all with a bizarre incidence of racism, or at least me. seeing as this fic, delayed by laziness, other commitments and technical failure as it is, was intended to serve as a Morrissey Redemption Arc, I've decided to abandon it at least for the time being—well, actually, I made that decision sometime in March but in keeping in my general attitude to schedules I'm only announcing it now. To take the edge off, here are the salient details of what Would Have Been: 

  * Andy and Mike live together in a handsome brick house in the suburbs of Manchester, bought with the proceeds of the court case. They own a cat named Feynman. Andy's experimentation with pharmaceuticals led to ascendance to a higher plane of consciousness in 1986; however, his focus on quantum physics following the final dissolution of the Smiths had negative consequences for him, and after failing to be accepted to any local university due to a lack of gcse's he was evicted from his then accommodation, his landlord citing his abuse of the walls in lieu of a whiteboard for his equations. Having kept up a phone correspondence with Mike, he asked if he could live in his garden shed while he found other lodgings. He had gained a reputation amongst the landlords of the greater Manchester area, however, and so it was three years after that Mike invited him into the house for a cup of tea. 
  * Mile and Andy are the perpetrators of a number of high-profile burglaries against record collectors and producers, in order to maintain the high standard of their DJ sets. Their home is crammed with stolen records, Andy's astronomical equipment and Mike's collection of china mugs, mostly sourced from an array of vegan and vegetarian events. He denies attending in the hope of spotting moz. 
  * The woman in charge of organising their reunion intended to have them turned into pig food following the production of enough evidence to satisfy david "pigfucker" cameron. She still bears a grudge against morrissey due to his comments re: the brighton bombings, as she came into her position as maggie thatcher was leaving (she wanted all the roast swan she could eat and the cast of Yes, Minister). 
  * Morrissey and Marr eventually come to a tear-streaked, emotional reconciliation following gentle pressure. 
  * Mike and Andy have had a bet running on whether marrissey is real since the first album. If it's ever #confirmed the loser will pay for the wedding gift. 
  * The band eventually escape with the help of a smiths-fan prison guard, who joined the military after her dreams of professional sound engineering were foiled. She comes to deliver the band's lunch (sad vegan carrot sticks for moz and johnny, veggie shepherd's pie w/ kerrygold-buttered mashed potatoes for mike & tofu stir fry for andy) and is persuaded to come to the band's aid by johnny beseeching eyes. 
  * After their eventual escape, the band decamp to mike and andy's house, after switching trains a few times to throw off the pursuit. They initially headed for moz's manchester house, but were unnerved by its dark wood panelling and overall victorian aesthetics, as well as the tofu throne moz has ensconced in his front room. It was a drunk buy. 
  * In addition to the aforementioned prison guard, the band were aided in their escape by linder sterling, who had tracked moz down via the tracker implant in one of his molars. (He had it installed after the mexican kidnapping attempt, but has no recollection of the event as he kept crying for johnny and this infuriated the surgeon so he dosed him with something very strong). She knocks out a guard by applying the heel of her stiletto shoe to his temple, then leaves once she's ascertained moz is still alive. 
  * Once they've made it to the Rourke-Joyce household, Moz reveals to Johnny that he doesn't actually intend to continue with the band, he'd just wanted to get out of the grasp of the government. Johnny is overcome by despair. Andy attempts to comfort him through judicious application of the cat. 
  * When the prison guard turns up at the house a few hours later, eager to help produce the new album, Moz is confronted with the consequences of his actions for once and, overcome with remorse (again) and re-allies himself with the other smiths. The band begin to plot a new album and touring schedule. The epilogue is of moz fuming backstage about the state of the music press, prior to a gig in scotland and following an intervention by the band + angie over his general...stuff (shut up i'm projecting at all) 
  * andy has occasional flashbacks to the original tenure of the band, and most specifically moz's tedency to lie on his sofa and complain about how johnny doesn't return his affections. johnny took alternating days to moz, because it was really quite a comfy couch.



 And that's about it, folks. Excerpts may be posted later  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about all that.

**Author's Note:**

> Um...it'll be far sillier next time around, this was pretty much all setup. If this fic shook you to the very depths of your soul, in either a bad or good way, please leave a comment or kudos.


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